


I'm Coming After You

by Hana_Noiazei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comedy, DenNor, Fluff, Non-binary character, Other, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22266859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hana_Noiazei/pseuds/Hana_Noiazei
Summary: Just as the little town of Hetalopolis is settling into a long-awaited age of peace, another villain rises in power. A swift-footed bandit is draining Hetalopolis of its valuables, and it’s up to a local superhero to stop them.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway, Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	I'm Coming After You

**BANDIT PULLS OFF ANOTHER HEIST** , the _Hetalopolis Times_ screams, **STARZKA CLOTHING STORE COMPLETELY LOOTED!** The page-long article includes a tearful interview from the owner of Starzka, lamenting the loss of his clothes and the ransacking of his store. Henrik shuts the newspaper and tosses it across the room, watching as it hits the wall with a satisfying _smack_.

He feels bad for not stepping in to stop the bandit, but again, what can he do? Hetalopolis has a plethora of other superheroes, after all, most of them way stronger than him. Henrik gets up from his moth-eaten couch and picks up the newspaper. Then he throws it at the wall again for good measure.

The sudden ear-piercing chimes of his cell phone makes him clutch his head in a mixture of pain and surprise. Rubbing his temples and reminding himself to change his ringtone, Henrik answers the call. “Hullo?”

“YO!”

He almost drops the phone again. “A-Al?”

“WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Henrik winces. “Can you, uh, quiet down?”

“Sure, sure.” On the other side, there’s a pretty large chance Alfred is grinning. “Sorry if I burst your eardrums, dude. But anyway, I called because I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going villain-hunting tonight, and I need a sidekick,” Alfred says, “and Gil’s already piss-drunk, Mattie’s asleep and Artie’s working. So can you help me out?”

“…what?”

“ _You heard me!_ ” Henrik places his phone a good few inches away from his ear. “I’m gonna find that thief and turn him in, and you’re gonna help me!”

The notion is so ridiculous that Henrik takes a few moments to reply. “Al, look for someone else. Out of all the heroes, why the hell are you talking to _me_?”

“Because you’re my friend! It doesn’t matter if we get booted off a skyscraper or run over by a tractor, or something. We’ll just patch each other up and go for a beer afterward!”

Leave it to Alfred, stupidly optimistic Alfred, to worm him into the most stupid things. “You’re really cheesy.” 

“I know.”

“I’ll do it, you gremlin.” Henrik runs to his bedroom, rummaging through his closet for a long-forgotten outfit. “But you’ll have to pay for my hospital bills.”

…

Fifteen minutes (and a struggle to fit into clothes meant for a man far younger than him) later, Henrik finds Alfred at the base of his apartment complex, his cape flapping in the wind and hands on his hips. “Hey!”

“Why do you look so much cooler than me?” Henrik picks at his worn-out tunic, pulls up his drooping breeches and reminds himself that at twenty-six, being the local half-retired superhero is still a valid job.

“Because I’m actually in shape!” He adjusts the mask covering the top half of his face. “Unlike you, I don’t just sulk at home when there’s crime to fight.”

He decides not to reply and lifts up his axe, arms straining with the effort. Henrik curses himself for getting so out of shape. Alfred snorts at his struggle and begins to march off. 

They race through alleys, stalk under streetlamps and peek behind trash cans, before heading to the little shopping district of Hetalopolis. The stores are all closed, double-locked to keep out any thieves. Alfred, with his ability of super-strength, lifts up a truck parked next to a restaurant and lets Henrik crawl under it. “D’you think they'll be here tonight?” He whispers.

Henrik shrugs.

Neither of them know how much time passes as they stare out from below the truck at the streets, at alleycats scrounging for morsels of food from the trash, at the occasional car driving past. It must be around midnight when a shadow, one that’s undeniably human, passes them by.

Alfred nearly kicks him in the groin as he points at the shadow, whisper-screaming “IT’S THEM!”. Henrik wiggles out of the way and peers at the bandit, who creeps along the pavement in muted black slippers, pressing a gloved hand to the cap concealing their head. A masquerade mask of midnight blue covers the top half of their face. As they step past the truck, the hem of their navy tunic swishes past. 

Craning his neck, Henrik watches as the bandit makes their way toward another clothing store, running slender fingers over the glass window that displays elegant, expensive clothing. In split seconds, the glass bursts. The bandit steps inside.

On the floor, neatly camouflaged among shards of broken glass, a spear of ice begins to melt. 

“There they go, there they goooooooo…” Alfred hisses. He begins to inch out from beneath the truck. “Should I toss this truck at them?”

Following his friend out, Henrik shakes his head. “I’ll surprise them.” He digs his boots into the pavement, squares his shoulders and runs through the hole.

Before he can even blink, he’s inside the store, watching as the bandit walks, movements fluid and graceful, toward the cashier and tugs at the drawer. It seems that the bandit doesn’t even see him, as they pocket wads of banknotes and walk toward the hole in the wall again, right past Henrik.

Then they turn. A harpoon of ice, jagged and sharp, flies toward Henrik’s face.

He dodges it, skirting past them and zipping out of the store before more ice can hit him. “Al!”

His friend appears swiftly, jamming a car into the hole of the window and skirting back. “You didn’t get them?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll call the cops, then. You can grab them until they get hand — “

The door, now completely frozen over, flies off its hinges. The bandit sprints out from the doorway, stopping only to summon another spear of ice and turning on Alfred and Henrik.

“Or we might have to fight now!” Pulling the car out from its hole, Alfred tosses it at them. As though dancing, they jump it effortlessly. Henrik swings his axe at the bandit, only succeeding in slicing off part of their tunic. They retaliate with a smack of their ice-spear.

Reeling, Henrik only avoids another smack by a hair. Alfred darts at the bandit, trying to throw a punch, but gets knocked back with another harsh strike of the cold, hard spear.

His axe breaks the spear cleanly in two, the sharp tip flying off onto the road, but a new weapon is in the bandit’s hand almost immediately afterwards. Even though he’s practically teleporting around them, every one of Henrik’s attacks is swiftly dodged. Even without Henrik’s superpower of enhanced speed, the bandit is quick.

Alfred’s attempt to punch them is again parried away with a harsh jab of the spear that punctures a hole in his shirt. “Dang it!” He goes for a kick. He misses for the third time. “They’re so hard to catch. Almost like a, uh…”

Henrik sweeps his axe-handle at the bandit. It knocks him back slightly, but is nowhere near enough to defeat him. “Think of that later!”

“A pixie!” Alfred rushes in, shouting, “they’re like an annoying little pix — “

He falls down, knocked out cold with an ice-block to the stomach. Henrik watches as he slumps down, then hefts up his axe with what almost feels like excitement running through his veins. “Guess it’s just you and me now, Pixie.”

He charges.

Actually managing to slice a tiny cut in Pixie’s calf with the tip of his axe and knocking them down once, Henrik’s blood roars in his ears. He slashes, ducks and counters with newfound strength, his ability allowing him to escape a few deadly attacks to the head. He has almost forgotten the exilharation of a good fight.

Now wielding a mace, the Pixie slams their icy weapon into his ribs. Hot pain lances through his side, but, not bothering to check if he’s broken any bones, Henrik lunges forward desperately, axe aimed at Pixie’s face.

Pixie dodges at the very last second, and the blade only catches the corner of their mask. It falls off, clattering to the ground after being sliced in half. Victoriously, Henrik stares at Pixie, who falls to their knees… and pauses.

He looks at his opponent, now unveiled. A few scattered golden locks fall above murky blue eyes blown wide with surprise. Their smooth, round cheeks are red with the cold and with exertion, and their rosy lips are squeezed in a tight “o” of shock. They struggle to their feet, standing uncertainly and squaring their shoulders.

Screaming at himself to pick up his axe, Henrik is frozen in place, despite the fact that Pixie hasn’t cast anything on him. He stares, as Pixie turns, stumbling a little, and runs.

At his feet, Alfred groans. “Whuh?”

“They got away.”

“Whuh?”

“Pixie ran away.” Henrik starts to feel the adrenaline fade, the pain in his ribs increasing tenfold. “I don’t think ice is their only ability.”

“Whaddaya mean?” Alfred crawls toward a street lamp and pulls himself up with it. 

“I don’t know what it’s called, but y’know, it’s like that Medusa thing. When you look into their eyes, you freeze.”

“Wait, really?” He massages his head. “That didn’t happen to me when I fought them, though.”

“Maybe they hadn’t activated their ability then.” Henrik grabs one of Alfred’s arms to keep him steady as they limp away from the crime scene. “But enough of that. Let’s get you to a hospital, then we’ll tell the cops about Pixie.”

…

He’s in the headlines again.

**SUPERHEROES AMERICA AND VIKING TRY TO STOP HEIST** , is printed on the front page this time. **MONEY SAVED, SHOP DECIMATED!**

Again, the newspaper is thrown against the wall. It’s exactly twenty-four hours after Alfred took him to go villain-hunting, but with his friend at the hospital, there’s no way he can face Pixie alone.

Then their face flashes in Henrik’s memory, of astonished midnight eyes, puckered lips and a slender frame stumbling away with all the grace of a bird with a broken wing. He remembers the thrill of fighting a bad guy again, and his bruised ribs ache with the thought. 

But who cares about broken ribs when there’s crime to fight? Once again, Henrik changes into his outfit, grabs his axe (not so heavy this time) and returns to the shopping district.

This time, Pixie is looting the florist’s, easily picking their lock and gathering banknotes, which are cleverly hidden in a flower pot, but still not hidden cleverly enough to escape their eagle eye. When Henrik enters the store, axe held protectively in front of them, they turn. Their mask is intact again, and Henrik reminds himself not to knock it off.

Then they lunge.

The first bolt of ice is easily dodged, the second one missed by a hair. Backing out of the flower store, Henrik swipes his axe and catches Pixie’s lance. It cracks in two, then skitters across the pavement far away from the fight. While they look at their lost weapon, Henrik kicks them in the back of the knees, making them stumble, and thrusts out his axe-hand to slice him in the chest —

Pixie grabs his wrist.

Henrik freezes, like he did when looking into their eyes. His hand trembles. His axe falls to the ground. Agonising cold is spreading across his arm. When he looks down, his entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, is covered in ice.

He wrenches away, head reeling. He can hear every one of his breaths.

Before Henrik can get a hold on himself, or a hold on his axe, Pixie walks away, throwing something behind their back.

That something lands right at his feet. He looks down — it’s a bouquet of roses. But Henrik can barely register why he was thrown the bouquet. The only thing occupying his mind, making him feel giddy despite his defeat, is the warmth in Pixie’s hand he felt the split second before they attacked.

…

Everyone says the third time’s the charm, and Henrik can’t help but agree.

Pixie is far easier to fight this time. Perhaps it is the strain of fighting three nights in a row, but their icy mace is smashed in half, and their tunic is quite torn up from harsh blows of Henrik’s axe. A few paces away, Henrik can see their chest heaving. When he raises his axe, he hears them gasp. If not for the fact that they’re fighting, he’d almost find it cute.

He charges for what he’s sure will be the last time — he’ll take Pixie down once and for all, and turn them in. He knocks them to the ground, presses them against the hard, rough asphalt, right outside the chocolate store they were trying to rob. Strangely, they don’t struggle. Henrik reaches into his pocket for his phone.

But when he’s about to call the police, he looks down at Pixie, who has turned their face so that their mask falls off. And once again, Henrik looks into surprised eyes, glazed over slightly with pain. Their delicate lips are parted, struggling to take in oxygen. The bruises mottling the right side of their face, marring fine skin and sharp cheekbones, make him wish they never fought.

Henrik feels as though he is being enchanted. He gets up, slowly, and extends a hand to Pixie. They take it. Their gloves have been sliced off, and his hand tingles when their skin touches. Despite being a master of manipulating ice, Pixie’s hand is warm, their skin soft and smooth. Henrik resists the urge to squeeze it.

As Pixie limps away, clutching their battered mask in one hand, Henrik screams at himself for being so stupid.

At his feet, he finds a box of chocolates.

…

Their game of cat-and-mouse continues for weeks. No matter if it’s a win or a loss, Henrik lets Pixie go after every fight, watching as their slight, wavering figure disappears down the street. And every time, without fail, they leave a gift behind, a remnant of what they tried to steal. A packet of candy, a pair of expensive new boots, a soft, fluffy blanket.

Alfred, still nursing his injuries from his fight, tells Henrik that Pixie’s trying to frame him for his thefts, advising him to throw those gifts away. But he eats the candy, tries on the boots (which fit perfectly) and falls asleep wrapped in the blanket, dreaming of grandeur and glory.

One night, he can’t find Pixie in the shopping district. He walks across Hetalopolis, like he did with Alfred at first, and it takes him almost an hour to find them, lingering in front of a darkened building. 

There’s no staring match. Henrik grips his axe handle with both hands, and looks at Pixie. “En garde, my bandit?”

No other prompt is needed. They create a transparent, shimmering mace of ice, and swing.

After fighting so many times, they’re both accustomed to each other’s style. The exchange of blows fall on nothing; it’s more feinting than anything. Henrik can tell, by how Pixie lags behind, how their icy darts miss by miles, that their heart isn’t into the fight. It’s almost like they want him to win.

Pixie leaves their right side unguarded for a few seconds. He leaps forward, intent on bringing them down.

Henrik drops his axe when Pixie grabs his arm instead, pulling him closer. With their other hand, they pull their mask off and knock their cap to the ground. Cornsilk hair that appear silver in the moonlight half-conceals those beautiful dark eyes, and those pale, slim lips appear to be smiling. He wonders if they’re as soft as they look.

He gets his answer when Pixie leans in and kisses him. Like his hands, his lips are warm and as soft as flower petals. His other arm moves to wrap around Henrik’s waist, pressing him so close together that he can inhale their scent, drown in them completely. When they pull away, Pixie’s cheeks are red.

“I won’t turn you in if you kiss me again,” Henrik gasps. He feels as though he is floating. Pixie continues to hold his hand, tracing their thumb across the back of his hand.

And when they talk, he nearly forgets how to breathe. Pixie’s voice is quiet, comforting, like the murmur of rain. He wants to hear them talk forever.

“That’s strange.” They smile, just a little, and Henrik practically melts. If either of them think it’s strange that their opponent is adorable, they don’t say it. “I was going to say that I’d turn myself in if you kissed me again.”

“I’d rather have you in my apartment than in jail,” Henrik says, “so we can kiss each other plenty without consequences.” His heart skips as he asks, “what do you think?”

Their eyes light up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’d much rather spend my night with you than in a cell. But a few things you should know, if you want this relationship to go anywhere.” Henrik almost faints when he hears them use the word “relationship”. “My real name is Stell. For goodness’ sake, stop calling me Pixie. I’m not short.”

He watches as Stell draws themself up to their full height, and still be a good few inches shorter than them. “My name’s Henrik. And you _are_ short. You’re tiny and cute.”

An ice cube hits him on the side of his head. Henrik rubs the wet spot left behind and laughs, crushing the ice cube with his boot. Stell rolls their eyes and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He kisses their forehead, as they make the slow, lazy walk back to their apartment.

He wonders what the headlines will say tomorrow.


End file.
